The Trip To Paradise
On the galley I stood. I could see, a shadowy figure,
wearing a black dress and a hood.
It’s stories I have heard. Legends of a lifeless captain,
his boat and his bird.
Fifty-four I was, till the lifeless captain took me in
his masterpiece, his work, his canvas, a sea made entirely of us.
Wifeless, lifeless, colorless. I was sure it wasn’t alive,
he or she, it, moved like a puppet, soulless.
Whilst waves of memories hit the prow, the figure proceeded to say:
“These memories are you,
your friends,
your family,
I, and where you lay.”
The sentence was punctuated by a loud, distant-yet-near screech.
A black crow with a silver-like beak could be seen by my curiously intrepid eyes.
We reached the docks, and the figure left me beneath the cloudless skies.
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